Painkiller
by HoppyToad
Summary: CG, GS: Catherine’s POV And you know when I'm bruised, and you heal, and you soothe, and you save me from myself


Rating: PG

Pairing: C/G G/S

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the CSI characters. They belong to CBS and TPTB. I'm only borrowing them for my own fun, and promise to return then relatively undamaged. 

Spoilers: None

Summary: Catherine's POV - "And you know when I'm bruised and you heal and you soothe and you save me from myself" - 'Painkiller' Alistair Griffin

You're not sure why things changed; why he decided to stop riding roller coasters and turn to you instead. You are sure that it was his choice though. You didn't ask him to turn up on your doorstep, to stand in the pouring rain, to bemoan the fact that a husband could be capable of coldly beating his wife to death without any kind of regret. You'd see worse; you both had, so his reaction had surprised you. You guessed he'd been thinking of you and Eddie; of all the nights when you would show up at his townhouse; all the times he would play the good friend, offering you comfort, safety and friendship; of all the wasted words asking you to leave the bastard; all the arguments the next day when you'd announce you were going home. So, when the situation was reversed, albeit minus bruises, broken bones and blood, you felt you had no choice but to invite him in. That night it was your job to play the role of good friend, to be the strong one, to whisper the never believed but necessary "It'll be ok"s. He had come seeking comfort, but you had seemed unable to give it. The words had all seemed empty, meaningless. So you had offered him more than that; a glass of whisky to begin with, then a quick kiss on the lips, your courage coming from the several glasses of vodka you had consumed earlier. Meant only as a gesture of friendship, you'd expected him to smile shyly, but instead found yourself consumed by the sudden desire in his eyes and unable not to kiss him again. A collision of lips and tongues, roaming hands, and a race to the bedroom. It was rushed, both your minds overflowing with an equal mix of lust and doubt. You knew that he never intended to seduce you that night, that he probably never had planned to any night, but you were willing to do whatever you could to dull the aching, to be his painkiller for the night. 

When you woke in the morning, he had already left. An empty whisky glass a solid reminder of his presence, the only tangible proof that it hadn't been a dream. You had busied yourself tidying the house, thankful it was the weekend and that Lindsey had stayed at a friend's. You tried to lie to yourself that it was only out of friendship, a selfless act, but the part of your mind you're always trying to ignore, kept insisting you had taken as much pleasure and comfort as he had. 

The next shift, you weren't surprised when he blanked you, noticing him blush slightly if you so much as made eye contact. He had paired you off with Nick, allowing him to avoid you for the rest of the night. After work, sensing he regretted what happened and worried he would never speak to you again, you had decided it would be a good idea to drive to his townhouse and hammer on the door until he answered. He reluctantly let you inside, mumbling something about having taken advantage of you. You had scoffed, told him it wasn't true, that you had needed it as much as he had. How you went from there to the bedroom, you wish you knew.

Falling into a routine from that point had been easy. You never discussed it; it just seemed to be a silent understanding; a pattern you both were content to follow. He knows to wait for Lindsey to leave for school. You'll see him, sitting in his car a short distance down the road. You're sure that Lindsey has noticed, and keep waiting for her to mention it. But she never does. After you've seen her safely on the bus, you always close the door behind you. You're not sure if it's out of habit or just simply to gain some control of the situation by forcing him to knock. Each day you wonder if this is the day he's grown tired of all this and chooses to drive away; but he never does. A soft knock, then he waits patiently for you to answer the door. You always wait a moment before doing so. You don't bother with greetings, you simply stand aside to allow him to pass. No words are spoken; after fifteen years you don't feel any are needed. You just take hold of his hand and lead him to the bedroom. 

Afterwards, there's no pillow talk, unusual considering how your relationship before this was nothing but words; of teasing, of respect. That's gone now, and you often find yourself longing for things to return to how they were. At other times, you're equally content for them to stay as they are now. You lie on separate sides of the bed, the need for physical contact sated. A few hours sleep, then an alarm, set as a gentle reminder for him to leave before your daughter returns home. He never complains, just wordlessly redresses, understanding and accepting the terms of your arrangement. He doesn't ask for more and you never offer it. You both go back to pretending it isn't real; doesn't mean anything; at least until the next shift ends and the cycle begins anew. 

Occasionally, when things seem worse than usual, you do things differently. A parked Tahoe in a secluded spot, away from the bright lights of the Strip. Steamed up windows and low moans from inside. Then a drive home in silence, neither of you having anything to say, knowing that small-talk would make this into something it isn't. 

Now though, things have changed again. He's finally admitted what you've known for a while. He sees her as more than a colleague, than the student she once was. A simple "I have a date with Sara" in a brief moment alone in the break room and your world falls apart. You're surprised it has this effect on you; you'd known that what you had wouldn't last forever, yet it still hurts. The selfish, self-absorbed part of you had always assumed you would be the one to finish it, be the first to move on. You even had a speech, already written and rehearsed. You never once considered he would acknowledge his feelings for Sara. At one time, you had worried about nothing else, that she would take him away from you, even if he was never really yours to begin with. So to stop you worrying you'd put all your effort into hating her. Now you've lost him to her anyway.

You're sure he saw through the fake smile you gave, but he didn't comment on it, instead offering a shrug, as if that would serve as both apology and explanation. After simply nodding, you had turned and left. Feeling a sudden unjustified anger, you find yourself considering throwing yourself at Warrick, but come to your senses just outside the evidence room, realising it wouldn't help, instead only succeed in embarrassing all involved. Plus a small voice inside you whispers that Grissom wouldn't even care if you did. In fact, he'd probably congratulate you, saying what a great couple you'd make, and how he's pleased you found a guy like Warrick. And you'd have to stand there smiling, knowing that he means everything he says while you are nothing but a liar, not even able to be honest to yourself. 

You somehow make it through to the end of the shift and toy with the idea of going straight to the nearest bar, spending the day drinking. Then you think better of it, choosing to spend time with Lindsey before she leaves for school, and settling for the half-empty bottle of vodka standing on the kitchen counter. 

Breakfast with your daughter goes some way to making you feel better, but after watching her run for the bus, you find your eyes are drawn down the street. You're not surprised it's empty, knowing that he's with her; breakfast in a diner, an interesting conversation about bugs, or a programme they both watched on the Discovery channel. You're jealous of her for a brief moment, suddenly wanting all you know he'll give her; dinner and a movie; sweet nothings, longing glances and "I love you"s. The thought passes though, leaving you to accept that he is hers now. He's found a new, more effective painkiller in her. It hurts, but you know he has a shot at real happiness with her; a relationship built on more than sex. You know that you'll pretend to be happy for them and that once again it's your turn to play the good friend. 


End file.
